


The Endless Fall

by Princess_Cocoa



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Brief discussion of WW2, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, In which demons and angels alike both suck at talking about their feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-05-31 03:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19417603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Cocoa/pseuds/Princess_Cocoa
Summary: Aziraphale really should have noticed earlier.He'd always known that Crowley isn't like other demons. He cares about kids, he performs miracles as part of their Arrangement, and he has never seemed truly invested in furthering the plans of the executives Below. Yet, even after all these years together, it didn't occur to Aziraphale until recently that there was something else that sets Crowley apart: he isn't proud of his Fall. In fact, if the angel didn't know any better, he would say Crowley regrets it.(Aka 5 times Aziraphale fails to notice Crowley's pain surrounding the Fall, and the 1 time he does).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rising from my fic-writer grave to join in the FLURRY of activity in the Good Omens tag following the airing of the show! And of course I'm starting off with an h/c fic. I mean...did anyone expect any different? 
> 
> I've been furiously reading fics (sometimes even at work...oops) so I don't think this exact thing has been done yet. But if it has...then the more the merrier! Let me know what you think in the comments below!
> 
> As always, you can chat with me or throw a prompt my way on my tumblr: lazarus-mission.tumblr.com

**3004 B.C.**

The rain has just begun to drizzle down and the crowd has started dispersing. All things considered, it isn’t a particularly bad storm. Yet. A fact that only serves to make the jeers and laughter grow. Everyone in the area thinks it crazy - building a boat that size in the  _ desert _ . They’re making sure to let Noah know it, too. 

Aziraphale watches as mothers and fathers gather their youngest, heading home to avoid the weather. He watches as teens and children run around, laughing. He watches as young men yell at Noah - rude words that Aziraphale attributes to the demon beside him. 

He watches as Crawly slowly shakes his head and turns away.

Aziraphale follows silently - not as morose as his companion but certainly not happy either. They both know what’s coming. They both know that soon, those boys and teens and families won’t be laughing. 

Crawly was right: this sort of thing doesn't feel like something his lot are supposed to do. 

“Why are you following me, Angel?”

Aziraphale stops walking with a start, suddenly realizing that they have been walking for quite some time. Already, the rain is coming down harder. 

Lightning strikes nearby. Now, some concern makes its way into the previously-lively voices of the citizens around him. 

He looks up. They are in a small city. People are closing up shop to prepare for the storm. Mothers are calling for their children and fathers are climbing onto their rooftops to check for leaks. A single building away, a bird is squawking. 

It’s incessant, really. Its cries continuing, on and on. Almost like a lament. It sounds...

“Tragic,” he mumbles, stepping closer to the bird. 

Crawly folds his arms at that, leaning against a nearby building and eyeing the angel warily. “Now you’re getting it.”

Aziraphale gives him a stern look. “I’m not talking about the whole...the...rain.”

“The flood,” Crawly corrects, but Aziraphale ignores him.

“I’m talking about the bird. Do you suppose it knows?”

“That it’s going to die?”

Aziraphale nods, stretching out his hand in invitation. The bird tilts its head, staring at him. It goes back to yelling.

“Probably knows better than these humans,” Crawly murmurs. “Can’t feel good. Getting passed over for the refugee cruise.”

He steps around Aziraphale then, standing on his tip-toes to get a closer look. Aziraphale steps out of his way. 

“Makes sense though. I’m sure the Almighty isn’t interested in keeping an ugly thing like this in her new world.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows come together in confusion. Crawly is demon, but he's never been so blunt before. They haven't crossed paths often, but Aziraphale has yet to hear such disdain from him - especially when it comes to a living being. 

He eyes the bird, taking in its sleek black feathers and its dark eyes which are currently watching the demon in front of it. “Whatever are you talking about? I hardly think-,”

But before he can finish, Crawly is swatting at the bird. It squaws again, pecking briefly at Crawly’s hands before realizing what a dumb idea that is.

Aziraphale huffs. He watches as the bird flies away, heading in the direction opposite the ark. “That was quite uncalled for.”

Crawly shrugs. He bends down to pick up one of the bird’s feathers. It had fallen in the creature’s haste to get away from the rude demon.

“And calling it ugly was just mean. It’s had a bad enough day as it is.” He swipes the feather from Crawly’s hand, brushing away the sand. “Besides, any creature created by the Almighty is beautiful.”

Crawly scoffs at that, setting the feather ablaze with a pointed look. He looks away at Aziraphale’s yelp. “You don’t throw out things that are beautiful, Angel,” he mutters. Then he walks away, leaving Aziraphale behind in a state of very un-angelic-like annoyance.

* * *

**530 A.D.**

Aziraphale may not be the first to admit it, but he will concede that he’s not the most virtuous angel. But it’s hard to be free of any vice when such comfort exists.

He settles himself into the hot spring, sighing. 

Now, maybe he didn’t have to travel all the way to Japan for such a luxury but, well, things can get a bit old when you stay in one place too long. 

Besides, he has it on good authority that Byzantine is going to be a rather sad place to live soon and he simply doesn’t like to hang around so much death. Especially death caused by sickness. The hopelessness of the people is too much to bear. 

Aziraphale leans further into the pool of bubbling water, closing his eyes.

He jumps when something pokes his head.

He spins around in the water to find Crowley crouching down beside the pool, hand outstretched, finger pointed just above where Aziraphale's head was moments ago. He wrinkles his nose when Aziraphale’s eyes land on him. 

“Really, Angel? A hot spring at a time like this?”

“A time like what, Crowley?”

Crowley falls back, sitting cross-legged on the grass. “I have it on good authority that my people are sending a plague up to Constantinople right now.”

“And I’m sure you’ve  _ nothing _ to do with it.”

“There are other demons, Angel,” Crowley snaps. “Besides, sickness isn’t my style. Not flashy enough.”

Aziraphale is good enough to keep his incredulity to himself. Instead, he settles on the other side of the small pool. “As there are other angels. This is, apparently, out of my hands.”

“Another one of Her little gifts to humanity, then?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, voice stern. “She has nothing to do with it. This is-, a, well-,” he trails off. 

“A strategy formed by Her advisers in the Heavenly war rooms? Lose a battle to win the war, is that it?”

Aziraphale sighs, nodding. “So I’m told.”

Crowley hums, pulling grass from the earth and letting it fly in the small breeze. 

A few minutes of silence pass, both angel and demon lost in their own thoughts. If he didn’t know better, he might think that Crowley was just as upset at he is. It would seem both of their bosses went over their heads for this particular bit of human history. It’s not the first time something like this has happened - but it’s certainly one of the larger events. So large that there’s nothing he could do about it, even if he decided to go back and try. He can only heal so many people in a day, after all. 

No no. It’s best not to brood. This is all part of Her plan. All part of something larger. He can stay in Japan for awhile until things blow over. 

He glances up at Crowley who is staring unseeingly at the water falling into the pool over the grouping of rocks to Aziraphale’s left. It’s peaceful. They could both use that right now.

“Why don’t you join me, Crowley? This hot spring is very relaxing.”

Crowley’s eyes flick to the angel, then to the pool of water, and back to the angel. “Hm. Rather not.”

Aziraphale pushes forward until his hands are on the bank just in front of Crowley. He rests his chin on them, staring up at the demon. “Surely you don’t have better things to do. Your lot seem to have things covered for the moment.”

“Oh there’s always a temptation to be done, Angel.” He waves his hand in the vague direction of the nation’s capital. “Besides, it smells bloody awful here. Don’t know how you stand it.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at that. He’s never heard the demon choose work over relaxation.

He stares at him, but Crowley doesn’t concede. 

The angel dips his hand in the water, tossing a palm-full at Crowley. It lands square on his chest, sprinkling his face and arms as well. It was meant to be playful, but Crowley reacts like he’s been burned - jumping up and moving away with incredible speed.

“What the heaven was that, Azzzziraphale?”

Aziraphale blinks. Crowley’s tone is filled with anger, voice warbling with the intensity of his emotion.

“My dear, are you alright? I only meant to-,”

But Crowley hisses again, taking another step back. The demon is rapidly wiping at his face and arms. Aziraphale has never seen him like this before. 

“Crowley, I-,”

“Ssssave it, Angel,” he mutters. He snaps his fingers, water evaporating from the folds of his robes in an instant. “I’ll see you in a few decades.”

Aziraphale watches him stalk off, unsure of what just happened - both to Crowley and to himself. He wanted to cheer up the demon, the  _ enemy _ , and wasn’t afraid to soak in a hot springs with him to accomplish that. And as if that wasn’t strange enough, his intentions (good or bad, he’s still not sure) seemed to have greatly upset him. 

Perhaps his proximity somehow purified the water? Aziraphale straightens up at the thought - his body’s heart stuttering. If that was the case, then he’d have to do more than apologize. 

He brings his hands to his face, studying the water there. Yet, he doesn’t get any sense of holiness.

He sniffs, breathing in the smell of the hot springs. It’s pungent to be sure - the air filled to the brim with the scent of sulfur - but not awful. 

Maybe Crowley was simply being dramatic. Demons do have a penchant for that. Probably.

Aziraphale leans back into his original spot, settling against the rocks. He finds it’s not as comfortable as before. 

* * *

**1488 A.D.**

Aziraphale takes a long sip from his glass of wine, eyeing the boy across the cobblestone street. He’s young - thirteen, he’s told.

The chair next to him screeches across the wood floor. “Mmmmm he’s going to be in a lot of trouble for that,” Crowley murmurs, taking a seat beside the angel.

Aziraphale glances up. “Maybe.”

“Who’s this one, then?”

“He’s a young artist. I’m helping him along.” A pause. “Not that he needs it.”

Crowley hums, reclining deeply in his chair.

“Don’t tell me you’re here to thwart me,” Aziraphale says. He sits up in his seat and squares his shoulders.

Crowley simply waves his hand. Then, he grabs Aziraphale’s glass and downs the remainder. “Not interested in ruining some kid’s life. I’m here on other business.”

Aziraphale sighs, waving another glass into existence and filling both. He goes back to watching the boy. The young man is drawing on a large pad of paper. Not the worst thing in the world, except the pad doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to his teacher. And the pad was supposed to be carried into the shop and delivered to that very same teacher so that work could continue. If he’s discovered, he risks being fired from his apprenticeship. 

But if the teacher likes what he sees, then he will grow to be one of the most well-known artists in all of history. 

It’s a gamble, and it’s filled Aziraphale to the brim with stress. Hence the wine. 

Crowley leans forward, side-eyeing Aziraphale. “Looking anxious there, Angel. I’ve never seen your shoulders that close to your ears before.”

“This is an important person. I need to make sure things go smoothly.”

“Ah, yes. And letting the boy steal his teacher’s art supplies is definitely helping that along.”

Aziraphale takes another long sip of his wine. Then he counts to ten. Then, he says, “He needs to be able to show his skill. Ghirlandaio has been running him absolutely ragged. If he can’t display the talent he has, then he won’t be able to grow.”

The door behind the boy opens and he jumps, rapidly putting away the supplies. Not fast enough. 

Aziraphale groans as Ghirlandaio begins yelling, pulling the canvas from the boy’s hands and throwing it to the ground without a second glance. He doesn't care about the artwork. 

No one on the street or in the restaurant pay the interaction any mind - Ghirlandaio is loud at the best of times and can be quick to anger. The world moves on around them as the boy drops his head, hands shaking. 

“Oh no no no,” Aziraphale moans. “That is not how this was supposed to go.”

Crowley pats him on the arm. He stands up. “I’ll handle this,” he mutters.

Then, before Aziraphale can say a single word, Crowley is out on the street, stepping right up to the argument. He picks up the large canvas, feigning adoration. 

In flawless Italian, Crowley says, “Good lord this is amazing! Sir! Did you draw this?” 

He’s grabbed onto Ghirlandaio’s sleeve, pulling the man’s red-faced ire toward him. But Ghirlandaio stops short when Crowley holds up a clearly-full purse. 

“Sir,” Crowley says, “Please let me buy this! It’s magnificent!”

Aziraphale really thinks he’s over-selling it, but it seems to be working.

The boy raises his head, a smile playing across his face. Ghirlandaio straightens up - all business. 

The exchange is quick, and by the end Ghirlandaio is helping pick up the art supplies. His anger has faded into an approving smile. 

Aziraphale beams at Crowley as the demon strolls back, drawing in hand. 

“Oh Crowley, th-,”

“Don’t,” Crowley snaps, tossing the art face down onto the small table between them. 

Aziraphale keeps his mouth shut, but he can’t help the small smile that stays plastered on his face. He reaches forward and grabs the canvas.

When he turns it over, he gasps. “Oh wow.”

Crowley looks away. “It’s not that good, Angel.”

“He’s  _ thirteen _ Crowley. This is beautiful!”

Crowley doesn’t respond, but does turn his gaze back to the art he spent far too much money on. 

It’s still a sketch, but Aziraphale is still blown away at the detail. The rough lines depict a man with large, powerful wings. He’s suspended in air, falling, and reaching towards the top of the page with anger in his eyes. Or defiance. It’s difficult to tell. 

Crowley scoffs. “Totally inaccurate.” He takes a large swig of wine and turns to watch the other patrons in the restaurant.

“Oh I don’t know,” Aziraphale says. “The proportions are a little off. And the hands could use some work. But this is a level of skill far beyond his years!”

“I’m not talking about the bloody anatomy, Angel, I’m talking about the-,” he cuts himself off, turning away.

“The what?”

When he says it, it’s in a quiet voice. “The fall.” 

Aziraphale blinks, unsure if he’s heard Crowley correctly. Then, he looks back at the image and understanding dawns. The art is meant to depict the fall of Lucifer.

Now, Aziraphale isn’t sure what to say. This is a thing they don’t talk about. It’s kind of the whole reason they’re supposed to not like each other. It’s a topic to be avoided. 

“Oh don’t look like that, Angel,” Crowley says. He’s speaking fast now and Aziraphale isn’t sure if he’s embarrassed or annoyed. “I just mean that nobody looks that graceful when they get kicked out of high heaven. Everyone’s all ‘why me’ and ‘boo-hoo’. Tears everywhere, lots of screams. All very un-demon-like.” Crowley waves his hands wildly, clearly trying to be funny. 

But there’s an edge to his words that Aziraphale can’t get past. 

The silence that follows is charged. Aziraphale feels as if there is some truth to Crowley’s words, despite the demon’s attempt at flippancy. He’s worried about what to say. They’re not  _ like that _ . They’re not friends - barely acquaintances. This isn’t what they do. 

If he acknowledges the true meaning here, then Aziraphale will be acknowledging that they’re closer than they should be. It could be disastrous. 

So, instead of saying anything, he forces himself to chuckle. Then, he picks up the canvas and gently rolls it up. Then, he leans back and flags down the waitress. “Care for an appetizer, Crowley?”

Crowley lets out a breath and leans back in his chair. “If you’re paying,” he says.

They don’t look each other in the eye for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

**1945 A.D.**

They’re seated by the radio in Aziraphale’s bookshop. They’ve been planted there for hours. Neither has said a word. The voice on the radio says enough for the both of them. 

Aziraphale is staring out the window, watching nothing in particular. The city is quiet and the streets are emptier than he’s ever seen. The radio announcer sounds the same as ever, but the words are worse - horrific. The shock among the townspeople is palpable. 

“There is reason to believe that the Japanese city of Hiroshima no longer exists.”

That does it. Aziraphale launches from his seat to turn off the radio. His shaking hands turn the dials but the voice only gets louder, recounting the amount of people in the city, the destructive power of the weapon, the proud voices of the military personnel. Proud. They’re happy about this. 

Anger overwhelms Aziraphale and he slams his free hand against the top of the radio to quiet it. He just wants it off. He wants it to shut down!

His hand bursts through the top of the machine and lands squarely on the table holding it. The wood strains, barely holding itself together. 

He’s breathing heavily. His hand against the table now features several cuts and scrapes but he can’t be bothered to move it. All he hears are the numbers - the projected death toll. So many people.  _ Innocent _ people. All murdered.

A hand brushes against his arm and he whips around, gripping the wrist in a punishing hold. 

“How could you?”

Crowley steps back at the venom in his voice. He’s stopped from moving too far by the hand holding his wrist.

“Angel?”

“How could you, you-,” He swallows hard, tears of anger filling his eyes, “-you side yourself with the creatures that did this? How could you ever-,”

He cuts himself off when he sees the demon’s eyes widen in horror. 

“You think we did this?” he hisses. “This is all your side! All part of the  _ ineffable _ plan! She gave them the power to do this.  _ She _ set them on this path!”

Aziraphale lets go of Crowley and slams both hands on the now-broken wood formerly known as the table holding the radio. “That’s absurd!”

“Well it’s the truth!”

“Then why?” He yells. His wings spring free from his back and a wind begins whipping around the small room. “Why would She do this? What is the point?”

His hands find his hair and they tear at the curls, pulling until he feels the strain. He lets the pain of it keep him grounded. All he hears are the voices - the jeering voices - of generals and world leaders. The proud way they call this a success when all it truly is is a horror so vile that not even Hell itself could have concocted it. 

It’s with despair that he realizes Crowley must be right. Hell didn’t do this. It’s not one of theirs.

His eyes fill with tears.

“How could She do this? Why create these creatures just so they destroy each other? Why allow all this pain and misery? All this savagery?”

His voice has risen to a terrifying timbre, the sound reverberating through the room and making the walls shake. 

“Angel-,”

“Don’t, Crowley! Don’t rub this in!”

“I’m not trying to rub it in.”

Aziraphale yells. He wails in absolute despair. He can feel their pain all the way in his bookshop despite being countries away. All those lost souls and all the survivors. It hurts.

“She can’t do this,” he cries. “This isn’t right.”

Now Crowley grips Aziraphale’s wrists, pulling his hands free from his head and bringing them both to their knees. His eyes are filled with fire.

“Angel stop it.”

“No! Crowley She-,”

“Stop Angel!”

His voice is somehow louder than Aziraphale’s. It cuts through the fervor and brings the wind to a grinding halt. 

Aziraphale watches him with wide eyes. His tears won’t stop. Everything is blurry. 

“Crowley…”

“Don’t question the plan,” Crowley says. And now he moves his hands to Aziraphale’s shoulders, forcing the angel to look him in the eye. 

“But the plan-,”

“Is ineffable,” Crowley murmurs. “Don’t presume to know Her intentions. She really,  _ really _ doesn’t like that.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, but Crowley places a hand firmly over it, rapidly shaking his head. If Aziraphale didn’t know better he would say that Crowley looks scared. 

Must be the tears obscuring his vision.

“I’m serious, Angel. Don’t question Her. I couldn’t...I don’t…,” He sighs, removing his hand. “You don’t want to face those consequences.”

Somehow, Aziraphale’s eyes fill even more. They’re overflowing. He shuts them and leans against Crowley. His voice, filled with angelic fury, is replaced by stuttering sobs. 

Crowley’s arms come around him in a loose embrace. He stays completely silent as Aziraphale weeps.

* * *

**2018 A.D.**

He’s just left Heaven and he’s sitting in front of Crowley. But he’s not all there yet. The demon can’t see him. 

If Aziraphale wasn't concentrating so hard on pulling himself to the exact spot in which the demon is wallowing, he would be concerned about his friend's state. Unfortunately, he is concentrating very hard. In fact, it's all he can think about. 

The process is incredibly difficult. His essence is all over the place. Turns out fleeing from Heaven without a plan or a body is tough work. One might even call it ill-advised. 

He barely registers the world around him. Frankly, he’s lucky he even knows that Crowley is here.

Vaguely he feels the presence of someone else. The bartender, probably. He hears the faint sound of glass hitting wood - the telltale sign that Crowley is breaking into another bottle. 

For a moment, part of himself tries to slip out into the cosmos, but he grips it and forcibly drags it back to his location. He just needs to collect himself in one spot on Earth. Then things will be right as rain. _Then_ he'll be able to speak and to move as usual. Just get through the transition.

“I never asked to be a demon.”

That gives him pause. Now, Aziraphale focuses in just a bit on Crowley. It might take him longer to tether himself to this seat, but he finds he’s suddenly not overly-bothered by that fact. Not when Crowley is saying the words he’s saying. 

It's a lament. A bone-deep sadness that Aziraphale has never seen from the usually cool-headed demon. Crowley's signature smirk is gone. All Aziraphale sees and feels is regret.

“...freestyle dive into a pool of boiling sulfur.”

There. Right there. Aziraphale hears the crack in his voice - sees a tear roll out from under the sunglasses. He focuses up and  _ forces _ his being into obeying his will, using all of his power to appear in front of his best friend. 

Finally, they’re able to speak to one another. But Crowley’s words don’t leave his mind. Not during their conversation, not during his travels, and not during the whole end-of-the-world situation. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really appreciated seeing all the comments and kudos - thank you to everyone :D! I took my day off to finish this up a little earlier than I planned. I hope you enjoy it!

If he had to pinpoint the first moment he realized the depth of Crowley’s troubles, he would reluctantly say it was at that pub, while he was barely present. His friend mourning his circumstances while drowning himself in alcohol.

If he was to point out the first time he  _ should _ have become aware, he would say it was the day of the first near-apocalypse. Or, rather, the day of The Flood. 

Considering how little they knew about each other at the time, Aziraphale can’t be blamed for not noticing. That’s what Crowley would probably tell him. It’s not what he believes, though. 

Looking back, it all becomes clear as day.

In his mind, Aziraphale counts out the memories. The day of the Flood, when Crowley called the bird ugly. Initially, Aziraphale had thought demons simply believed all life was inherently hideous (what with its innocence and capacity for good). Now, he sees that it wasn’t the life, but the form it took - the dark feathers - that Crowley hated.

Then, in Japan when Crowley had all but panicked when he came in contact with sulfur-contaminated water. He acted as if it burned like Holy Water but now Aziraphale sees that the pool of water was probably too reminiscent to that damned pool of  _ bubbling sulfur _ . 

With regret, Aziraphale remembers Italy and Crowley’s comments about Michaelangelo’s childhood sketch. He should have been braver then. He should have been the olive branch that Crowley was so clearly reaching for. 

As if that wasn’t enough, there was still the memory of World War 2 - when Crowley was so adamant in warning him against having doubt; against questioning the Great Plan. He was afraid of seeing Aziraphale fall. Crowley didn’t want him to face the same punishment he had. 

It’s so obvious it hurts.

Crowley never meant to fall. 

In the back of his mind, Aziraphale always knew that. He’s heard the demon make passing comments about that fact before. But he’s always glossed over it. He’s always brushed it off as one of Crowley’s inappropriate jokes. 

Crowley feels pain about his fall. It’s an event that changed his life forever. Yet, they’ve never discussed it.

He’s tried. Now that he knows, he’s tried bringing it up at their dinners and at his bookstore. He’s said whatever he could think of to get them on a path to discussing this thing. But every time it feels like they’re on the way to talking about Crowley’s regret and sadness, the demon diverts the conversation. He doesn’t leave a single opening for the angel.

He’s built up a wall that he doesn’t want to tear down. A wall constructed from 6000 years of bottled-up emotions. It’s not good. Surely, that will only make things worse for him. 

Then again, who would he have talked to about it? His fellow demons revel in their newfound identities and the only angel who would ever listen - namely, Aziraphale - chose to wave it all off to the point that Crowley decided it wasn’t worth dwelling on.

Well, Aziraphale wants to change that. 

Unfortunately, it seems that if he wants to change that, a confrontation will be required. And he’s really not good at confrontations. Usually, he asks Crowley to do those kinds of things for him. He gets flustered and his voice goes high-pitched. It’s all rather embarrassing for both parties. 

Which is why he’s now sitting cross-legged on the top of the London Eye in the middle of the night. His elbows are on his knees and his head is resting heavily on his fists. Others might say he was scheming, some could even say he was brooding - but he’s an angel and angels don’t do either of those things. They think and they plan and they stay optimistic. 

How is he supposed to do this? Crowley isn’t exactly the kind of being who will just lay himself out. He doesn’t  _ do _ emotion. He doesn’t like to get too personal. He’s obsessed with how others perceive him and refuses to appear vulnerable.

Before, that didn’t bother Aziraphale. It’s simply who the demon was. But with the realization that they are much closer than either of them would like to admit comes the crushing truth that Aziraphale has let things go on like this for too long. 

Friends don’t let their friends suffer in silence. Crowley needs to see that Aziraphale is here for him - he needs to be able to talk about his past and reconcile everything that happened. 

Getting them both drunk is too underhanded. And while it would be the easiest way to get Crowley to talk, it wouldn’t be the kindest. 

Perhaps Aziraphale could use a more...overt conversation starter. Maybe he could hang the sketch that he’s kept on his person for six hundred years. Would Crowley notice? Would he say anything if he did? Probably not. The demon probably doesn’t pay such close attention to Aziraphale’s home.

He sighs and tries to clear his mind. He hears the humans milling about far below him despite the late hour. He smells the Thames as it flows. He feels the rush of the wind - much stronger at this height than on the ground.

He sees a pair of stylish shoes.

Aziraphale jumps up and back, nearly toppling off of the carriage in his shock. Crowley manages to grab him, steadying him enough to pull him back to the center. 

“Ok, Angel?”

Aziraphale straightens his coat while Crowley takes a step back to give him some space.

“My dear, shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Demons don’t need to sleep, Angel.”

“Yes, but you do.”

Crowley takes another step back. He folds his arms in front of himself and raises one shoulder in a shrug. “Can’t sleep. I sensed a certain angel wallowing.”

Aziraphale purses his lips and straightens up to his full height. It’s not the same as Crowley’s, but it’ll have to do. “I am not  _ wallowing _ ,” he says. And there’s that voice - that high-pitch near-whine that he hates to hear from himself. 

“Well that’s what it looks like.” He bends his head down so that he’s looking at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. “You’ve been acting strangely ever since we got back from Tadfield.”

The angel cringes internally at that. “Have I?” And the way he says it makes it clear to them both that Aziraphale knows exactly what Crowley is talking about.

“Is it something I said?” Crowley says it as a joke, but when Aziraphale looks away, his smirk disappears. “Angel?”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale breathes in. Then out. Then in again. He doesn’t have to, but he needs the extra few moments. He was looking for a window; perhaps there won’t be a better opportunity. If he wants a confrontation, then it has to be now. This is it. 

So much for the carefully thought-out plan.

“I’m worried about you.” He says it in a rush. Fast enough that even he has a hard time parsing through the words. He sees the moment Crowley does, though, because the demon raises his eyebrows far above his sunglasses - almost all the way to his hairline. 

“You’re  _ worried _ ? About  _ me _ ?”

Aziraphale nods slowly. He can’t look at Crowley but he knows that he probably has his trademark smirk.

“...Why?” The way he says it is delicate. So delicate it surprises Aziraphale. He’s taking this seriously. 

Now or never. Now or never.

“Because over the past 6000 years we’ve grown close and it’s taken me so long to notice but I finally see now that you are not ok with your lot in life.” As soon as he starts speaking he can’t stop. All his pent up concern flows out of him like a waterfall. “In fact, you seem like you regret being who you are and you seem to have some rather pent-up frustrations about your past that I think you need to let out.”

A breath.

Then Crowley laughs. He throws his head back and laughs and laughs. 

Aziraphale frowns.

“Oh Angel,” he says, giggles breaking through. “Now you truly sound insane. I’m a  _ demon _ . Demons don’t-,”

“Don’t! Say it.” Aziraphale clenches his jaw and takes a step forward. He feels anger flare inside him. Not so much at Crowley as at the tactics he now recognizes for what they truly are. The casual way the demon brushes off Aziraphale’s worry. The flippancy he forces out as a carefully constructed mask. 

“I know you’re about to make some excuse about demons not having emotions or not caring even if they do but I know that’s not true. I saw how you reacted before The Flood and in Japan. I remember what you said in Italy and in my bookshop in 1945.”

Crowley’s expression slams closed - his mirth disappearing in less than a second. 

Now Crowley steps back, and his eyes dart briefly to the side. Aziraphale sees it: Crowley knows that he’s talking about. And now he’s looking for an escape. A lie of some sort. But Aziraphale presses on.

“You hate birds with black wings. You call them ugly and you’re cruel to them. I didn’t realize then and I’m sorry.”

“Can’t a guy have a preference for-,”

Aziraphale quickly cuts him off. “Then in Japan you said that the hot springs smelled awful. Fine. Many humans feel that way too. But you reacted violently to having the water splashed on you. You acted like it burned you. It took me years to realize that the problem was the combination of hot, boiling water and the stench of sulfur.”

Crowley makes that noise of his like he’s thinking of something to say. Hemming and hawing as if he’s an old CD stuck on one second and unable to move forward. So Aziraphale moves closer, stepping further into his space. His voice is surprisingly even.

“I should have seen it in Italy. You gave me an opening. You wanted to talk about your fall then but I ignored it. I pushed you away because I was scared of becoming too close to someone who was supposed to be my enemy. I was scared to show you that I cared. But you were never scared to do that. You helped me then and you helped my in 1945 when I was ready to forsake everything I knew and believed in.”

Crowley steps away from Aziraphale’s pointing finger. He raises his hands. “Angel, I don’t want to do this.”

“I know that, Crowley! But you should!”

“Why?” Crowley pushes his hand through his hair. His sunglasses are sliding down his nose and Aziraphale can see his eyes now. They’re wide, rapidly moving from side to side. There’s something there that Aziraphale has never seen before: panic.

Oh. Maybe a confrontation wasn’t the best idea. 

Aziraphale lowers his voice back to its normal level. “My dear, I’m sorry. It’s just that, well, I see these cracks. Over 6000 years there are moments when you seem so sad. Like...like in the pub.”

“What?” Crowley’s voice comes out strangled. “What are you talking about?”

“At the pub after the fire. When you said you didn’t want to be a-,”

“No! Stop! I didn’t say that.”

“Crowley...My dear...”

Crowley waves his hands. “No, Aziraphale. I never said that. I’m a demon and I pretty much always have been.” He steps away, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter what happened Before.”

“I rather think it does,” he murmurs, raising his hand. It’s meant as an offering, but Crowley steps back as if he’s suddenly afraid of the angel’s touch. 

Except this time, he steps right over the edge of the carriage with a gasp. 

Aziraphale yelps and peeks over the side, watching as Crowley’s wings pop into their dimension. But they don’t flap. 

He’s not stopping himself. He just keeps falling.

Falling and falling.

Until he crashes into the water below.

White wings spring into action and Aziraphale is at the water’s edge a millisecond after Crowley fell through. The demon surfaces, coughing and spluttering and...screaming. 

He’s gasping for breath that he doesn’t need, shouting and flailing.

The terrified yells of his friend make him freeze. For a moment, Aziraphale stops moving as he floats just out of reach. He can only stare. 

This is a Crowley he’s never seen before. Any pretense has been completely torn away by fear. His glasses are gone, showing the wild eyes underneath. Aziraphale doesn’t understand. Crowley fell from the top of the London Eye into the Thames; yet, he’s acting like he’s landed in a pool of acid-,

Oh. 

If he had to pinpoint the first moment he  _ truly _ realized the depth of Crowley’s troubles, he would shamefully say it was right now, at this moment. Because he didn’t truly understand before. Crowley isn’t just sad about his fall - he’s traumatized by it. 

And for a brief moment, he made Crowley relive it. 

He shakes himself, then grabs Crowley’s arm and hauls him out of the water. Crowley fights him the whole way.

Even when they reach the shore, Crowley is violently shaking. His troubled shouts have turned into agonized moans as he scrambles out of the water. As soon as he’s free, he wraps his arms around his body, pushing himself against the concrete wall lining the river.

Aziraphale’s hand is extended, unmoving from where Crowley ripped his own arm free. His eyes are wide as he watches his demon fold in on himself. 

Aziraphale truly has no idea what to do.

He opts for doing the only thing he can do without going near the shivering demon. He snaps, and the water peels itself away from Crowley’s clothes, slithering past Aziraphale and back to the water behind him.

Despite being dry, Crowley’s shivers don’t stop.

God what has he  _ done _ ? Dredged up all of these memories in the worst possible way just for Crowley to slip and fall at the worst possible time. One final nail in the coffin. The last memory to be recalled, the last trauma to be re-lived: a fall. A fall that Aziraphale practically pushed him into. A fall at the hands of yet another heavenly being.

Aziraphale’s hands fold into fists so tight that his nails cut into his skin. He uses the pinpricks of pain to ground himself before he kneels down and scoots infinitesimally closer to his demon. 

“Crowley?”

No answer.

Aziraphale gets closer and extends his arm. His fingers lightly brush Crowley’s outer arm.

Crowley’s hand shoots out, violently slapping the angel’s hand away. 

“Don’t touch me!”

Now he’s looking at Aziraphale and his eyes are blazing. The red from his tears clashes with the bright yellow of his irises making him look mad. Making him (for the first time in Aziraphale’s memory) truly look like the demon he is. 

Aziraphale lowers his hand, but he doesn’t retreat. He’s sure his presence isn’t welcome, but he’s not going to leave Crowley here alone. 

“I-,”

“6000 years,” Crowley growls. “6000 bloody years I spend with you and you-, you-,” he cuts himself off with a yell, standing rapidly. His hands are pulling at his hair and the feathers of his wings are ruffled.

Crowley rounds on him. He gets so close that Aziraphale is forced backwards into a sitting position. 

“Why are you doing this? I hate thinking about this! It’s torture! Why are you  _ torturing _ me?”

_ Torture? _

Aziraphale’s mouth opens but no sound comes out.

“Did Gabriel put you up to this? Did She?”

“Crowley,  _ no _ .”

“Then why!” He’s yelling so loud that the ground shakes beneath them. His wings flare out and a few nearby bushes catch fire. 

It might be frightening to other angels, but Aziraphale sees what they wouldn’t: Crowley hasn’t stopped crying this whole time. He’s not angry, he’s hurt. He’s in so much pain he can’t contain it.

Aziraphale’s own eyes fill with tears but he viciously wipes them away.

“Crowley I can’t even begin to imagine-,” he stops, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. This wasn’t how I intended this to go.” Slowly he stands up. “I shouldn’t have tried to confront you. I’ve always been terrible at that. And...and you certainly weren’t supposed to fall.”

Crowley stops moving then; he stops shaking, breathing, blinking. He’s like a statue. His eyes, so filled with anger just seconds ago, are now wide - glazed and distant.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Aziraphale reaches out and brushes his fingers against Crowley’s. The demon sucks in a breath but doesn’t move. 

“I don’t just mean here and now.” He wraps his hand more firmly around Crowley’s. This is so important. He needs to show Crowley that he’s on his side; on  _ their _ side. “I’ve never seen or heard of a demon with even an ounce of the love and-, and the  _ goodness _ you hold within you Crowley.”

Crowley blinks, his eyes sliding slowly over to meet Aziraphale’s.

“You weren’t meant to fall,” Aziraphale says it with as much conviction as he can. He says it because it’s true. Crowley has never been a proper demon. He has never reveled in causing pain and misery. “That fact has been haunting you for millennia. The regret and pain caused by it has been endless. I see that now.” 

Traitorous tears leak from his own eyes, and he squeezes Crowley’s hand. It doesn't make sense. He’s always said that Her plan was ineffable but it’s never been cruel. There’s always a logic to it. Maybe Aziraphale hasn’t always been able to identify that logic right away, but it’s there. She doesn’t make mistakes, especially not one as grievous as trapping an angel in Hell.

Realization hits Aziraphale like a truck.

“But if you remained in Heaven,” he says slowly, “then the world would be gone today. Everything would be destroyed.”

Crowley’s breath hitches but he doesn’t look away. 

Now he speaks faster as the pieces slot into place in his mind. “I think She knew you. Truly  _ Knew _ you. She placed you where you needed to be to help the world, to help humanity.” A pause. Then, much more quietly, “To help me.”

“That’s not fair,” Crowley says, his voice weak and reedy like that day in the pub. “All that pain…” he cuts off, squeezing his eyes closed. “It’s not  _ fair _ .”

Aziraphale nods his head in total agreement, looking away from Crowley’s anguish. He can’t bear to see it. On some level, Aziraphale has always known that they are all just pawns in Her game, but to see it so it so clearly makes his chest ache. Crowley has an incredible purpose, and that means he has had to suffer so much. “You’re right,” he whispers.

Would it be presumptuous to assume he has an important purpose as well? And that, perhaps, their purposes are intimately intertwined?

“Maybe...I was placed by Her too. Placed here. To help the world, to help humanity.” He takes a breath and looks back up, meeting his eyes. “To help you.”

A sob bursts free from Crowley, escaping with as much force as if it had been held back for hours. Then another. Crowley collapses in a manner akin to a marionette with its strings freshly cut. 

Quietly, Aziraphale puts out the flames around them and rights the structural faults caused by the small earthquake. 

Then he sits down, gently gathering Crowley in his arms. 

And the demon cries and cries. 

But this time - after this particular fall - he has his angel with him. Side-by-side. 

He'll be there for as long as Crowley needs.


End file.
